The Rake Magazine

Category: Article

  • The Three Tenors

    It’s admirable that the collaboration between these three giants of the opera world has lasted so long, not to mention a good thing for popular music in general. When Placido Domingo, Luciano Pavarotti, and Jose Carreras first got together 12 years ago, the unexpected appearance of a supergroup of opera was such an artistic and commercial smash that it may have singlehandedly reversed opera’s long, slow decline into obscurity. Purists sniffed that the shows were all about booming bombast and big personalities, and that pop success was luring Pavarotti in particular to spend too much time collaborating with rock stars. The Tenors couldn’t care less about such highbrow carping. Part of the reason they joined up in the first place was that they all love soccer: Their first trio performance was at the 1990 World Cup. It is true that Domingo is the only one still in peak voice, but the combined showmanship of the three will surely make this a night to remember. Xcel Energy Centre, (651) 265-4800, xcelenergycenter.com

  • Koerner, Ray & Glover

    Dave Ray is an all-around mensch, and it’s a crying shame that he’s been afflicted with a pretty serious battle with cancer. In any case, friends, let’s not mince words: You will not get too many more chances to see the legendary trio that played a big part in establishing the Dinkytown folk scene of the 60s—the same one Mr. Bob Dylan sprang out of. You want to see a piece of living history? Get thee to First Avenue and pay your respects to these giants of Minneapolis music, white blues, and flat-picking folknik fun. First Avenue, (612) 332-1775, first-avenue.com

  • Jayhawks

    One of the reasons we’re not too worried about covering the latest and greatest whosies and whatsits here in the Broken Clock is that we want to reserve space for the timeless, the classic, the perennial favorites. A great sin of the present generation is assuming that local heroes the Jayhawks have done nothing notable since Hollywood Town Hall, or since cofounder Mark Olson ditched the band. But listen: Smile, which came out in 2000, was every bit as hummable, memorable, and collectible. We have it in our CD player right now to prove it. Many critics were not so much pleasantly surprised by Smile as they were wholly knocked on their asses. We don’t know whether there’s a new record in the works or not, but we’re pleased Gary Louris still makes his home here, and is showing no sign of corruption in the pure, clear folk rock he seems to generate effortlessly. For all their evil ways, major labels still have their pride—and the fact that they continue to support franchise players like the Jayhawks is cause enough to celebrate peace on earth and goodwill toward the Man. Don’t let the holidays distract you from what’s really important—this happy hometown gig from a local treasure.

  • T Lee Fine Designer Jewelry

    As with so many local artists, we townies seem to be the last to know about T Lee’s creations and kudos, unless you’ve discovered her at the Uptown Art Fair. Now we can take a closer look at her original designer jewelry at her new retail store in the freshly chichi southern quarter of Northeast. But you may want to move fast, since her status as a rising star has been officially established this year with the winning of three big-deal national design awards, including the JCK Las Vegas Rising Star Award. Her specialty is woven strands of gold and platinum, and her current collection is simple, beautiful and timeless. Check out the grand opening weekend November 29–December 1. T Lee, (612) 789-2656., www.tleegold.com

  • Udupi

    The first thing we noticed when we walked in the door of this repurposed north-suburban Pannekoeken Huis was the inviting fragrance of spice and curry, just the thing to perk up our appetite after a logy post-Gophers game nap. There are more than 100 items on the menu, all South Indian vegetarian and many strictly vegan. The daily lunch buffet, with two dozen items, is a great way to sample a wide swath. If you’re a carnivore who thinks vegetarian food can’t be hearty or flavorful, a meal here will cure you of that misapprehension. Case in point: the mulligatawny soup, a rich broth that’s surprisingly robust. The menu includes many varieties of dosai, a rice/lentil crepe, and our tablemate had high praise for her house special, the cheese dosai with chickpeas. Our food was well complemented by a variety of sauces, and the coconut went especially well with the spicier fare. South Indian cuisine can be extremely fiery, and we decided to dive in for the hot version of the gobi manghuriani—marinated cauliflower sauteed in ginger, garlic, and chili. About a third of the way through, the top of our skull was on fire and our wimpy Nordic palate forced us to stop eating. But it was so tasty, we’re ordering it again next time—perhaps the mild version, washed down with a large bottle of Taj Mahal beer. 4920 Central Ave. N.E., Columbia Heights, 763-574-1113, www.udupicafemn.com

  • Smoke Signals

    The life of a publishing professional is not as glamorous as it might seem. The nights are frequently an extension of the days, which are an extension of the mornings—which is to say, lots of burnt coffee, dull pencils, and hectoring phone calls. The editor of this magazine occasionally slips out for a drink, it’s true, maybe a bit of dessert. If babysitting works out, the wife of the editor may come along. (Although crème brulée is outlawed from the pages of the magazine, it is welcomed at the table.)

    The metabolism of this magazine’s editor is not what it used to be. This is the self-evident conclusion to be drawn from the infrequent occasions when he has a few beers and takes in, say, a rock ’n’ roll concert. It’s a simple consequence of aging. Most of us can’t handle the excesses we once could. Surely it’s a survival mechanism, the difference between burning out and fading away. The fact is, most of us are for fading away, and it’s a good thing. A generation of Sid Viciouses would be the end of the race. Anyway, the point is this: Nobody hates a hangover the way we do, and we now know that the worst hangovers have nothing to do with the beer, or the scotch, or even the champagne. It’s the cigarette smoke. Whether times have changed, whether people in bars are smoking more than ever, we can’t say. But we do know that your average gin mill today is an intensely aromatic experience. By the time the editor gets home, the dog won’t come near, the kids resist affection, and the wife just points at the shower or the couch.

    Earlier this month, Michael Bloomberg proposed a rigorous ban on smoking throughout New York City. Yes, the ban would apply to bars and restaurants. Needless to say, excitable New Yorkers converged on City Hall. It’s unthinkable! It’s an outrage! What’s next, banning cell phones in public places?! (Oops, already working on that. No kidding.) But anyone who has traveled to California in the last five years can report that this type of law is not only possible, it’s terrific. Californians have embraced the ban, they self-police, they stay out later, they feel better. No one smokes in the bars, and yet the bars continue to thrive! The eyes don’t sting, the throat doesn’t burn, the hair doesn’t feel tacky as flypaper. The band is visible in living color from as far away as 50 feet.

    (Just to be clear, let’s just say this: The editor actually enjoys a civilized smoke now and again. A Winston Light, an American Spirit, even a Fuente Hemingway. But we’ll gladly take it outside, if it means we don’t have to wash our clothes and person in tomato juice every time we want to rejoin genteel company. Hey, we’re all about social responsibility.)

    Has this kind of thing been tried in Minnesota? Yes. Has it succeeded? Not really. Eden Prairie recently passed a weak version of an antismoking measure that pretty much just guarantees that addicted Eden Prairie civil servants will be freezing their butts off this winter. And the good people of Cloquet and Duluth have been fighting tooth-and-nail over their aggressive anti-smoking statutes for more than a year. (One might say that many of these local efforts in outstate Minnesota are doomed to failure, for the simple reason that there isn’t much to do other than smoke and drink. But that wouldn’t be nice.) There is one legitimate complaint: Business owners say smokers will conduct their affairs in that booming, smoke-choked town down the road. The obvious solution is to pass new statewide standards—hell, let’s make them national.

  • St. Paul: All Apologies

    I never knew Paul Wellstone, never met him, never interviewed him. I once saw him walking down Grand Avenue, alone, in a knit shirt and short pants. I was driving by with a friend, and I said, "There’s Paul Wellstone," and I was a little taken aback when he looked up and waved, apparently hearing me, even though it was a private conversation inside a moving car. Inside every loudspeaker is a powerful magnet–that’s the image I still have of Paul Wellstone.

    I liked him okay. I think I voted for him in 1990, when he most resembled a third-party candidate. I vote for third parties mostly on the principle that our system desperately needs to give real representation to minority parties and interests, which it still doesn’t do–except through the wacky, sometimes naive filibusters of a guy like Paul. I was both proud and embarrassed when he was the sole vote of dissent in the Gulf War back in 1990–and president Bush allegedly asked, "Who is this little chickenshit?" Frankly, that was the last time he really impressed me–which says more about me than it does about him. (That is: I apparently stopped paying attention more than a decade ago).

    Even if I wasn’t paying attention, it still seems to me the Democrats never embraced Wellstone in life the way they have done in death. This probably has to do with the fact that he has become an accidental but convenient symbol for all that the party is not, maybe never was, but sometimes wishes it would be. One thing is for sure–he was not a New Democrat. Clinton, Gore, Lieberman; these guys held Wellstone at arm’s length. If anything, he was Old School Democrat… a podium-hammering man with the strength of conviction to continue the highly uncool but traditional role of speaking for the voiceless, the powerless, the unrepresented. He was P.C. thirty years before the odious phrase was coined.

    Or was he? I’ve grown mighty tired, in a very short time, of all the disingenuous tributes. Aside from the normal extravagance and sentimentality that writers afford themselves in times of national turmoil, I am highly suspicious of critics who suddenly make a show of wiping away their crocodile tears for the man. It’s just as bad as having to listen to nit-witted conservatives, lifelong enemies, damning him with the faint praise of being "a man of principle who believed in his [essentially flawed] convictions."

    But writers are more devious than that. Writers are fundamentally not doers but watchers. Inevitably this makes us critics, in the worst, arm-chair sense of the word. We are a scurrilous and spineless bunch who are the self-appointed experts we’re constantly affecting to decry. There was nothing easier in the world than sitting back and taking shots at Wellstone–or any other public figure, for that matter.

    What does a writer "do" compared to a public servant or even a rock star? He sits on a chair, at a keyboard, wrestling with the language, and that’s the end of it. He hides behind the conceit that more direct involvement in the world will corrupt his work. He says he would have gladly engaged the public man, personally and professionally, wishes he would have–Oh, how they might have wrestled over the vagaries of public policy!–a few days too late.

    What a writer creates is a page full of words. That is his creative act, and it’s a tough one, to be sure, but it’s not really much in the grand scheme of things. Writers, I’m afraid, are not nearly as evolved as lots of other human beings, and whatever we have to say about the passing of a person like Paul Wellstone should be looked upon with the same scrutiny you all save for us the rest of the time.

    Just so: I’d prefer not to live in a world where Paul Wellstone is considered radical. More than that, I’d prefer not to live in a world where good and noble people–someone’s mother, father, daughter, son–simply fall from the sky and leave our lives so brutally fast, with so much unfinished business.

    The rest is moot. May they rest in peace.

  • Talk to Her

    One of the problems with seeing films like Pedro Almodóvar’s latest, Talk To Her, is that it inspires a profound guilt for all the time we’ve wasted on the latest Hollywood drivel. It’s doubly regrettable that this marvelous film will make its way to town during the holiday release frenzy and will probably get lost among the explosion fests. So, please let the brats off at the multiplex to see Bond or Potter, and bring a friend with whom you can share something deeper than a box of popcorn. Almodóvar, whose All About My Mother won the 1999 foreign film Oscar, has again plumbed the depths of sorrow, loneliness and difficult loves—but this time from the men’s point of view. Benigno and Marco befriend each other when they are both caring for lovers who have been put into comas as a result of trauma. But while Marco has known his Lydia for a long time, Benigno’s only spoken with Alicia once before her accident. During their time together at the private clinic where the two women are cared for, Almodóvar tells their stories via the men’s monologues with the comatose women and through effortless movement through the past and present. All this is not to say that the director abandons his infatuation with bizarre behavior—in this case it’s an act so out of bounds that one can’t help but be intellectually repulsed. At the same time, Almodóvar leaves us enchanted by the humanity and sympathy of the character who perpetrates the outrage. Allegories abound here, and you’ll have to pay close attention to get everything Almodóvar throws at you, but that’s an effort that will be rewarded with something more than the regret you’ll have at wasting another $15 on something you can see on cable in six months.

  • Scary Christmas

    Everyone knows Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, but did you know that it’s merely the best known among dozens of Victor-ian ghost stories traditionally told in the context of Christmas? Here, our old friend Steve Schroer—who gave up his gig as The Rake’s theater expert to get back up on the stage himself—and his Hardcover Theater Company have adapted three lesser-known spooks from the same era. By the way, this a great alternative to the Guthrie’s classic offering, especially for kids; we’re told there is nothing quite as scary here as the Dickens adaptation, and there are quite a few laughs to keep mom and dad chuckling too. Playwrights’ Center, (612) 332-7481, www.pwcenter.org

  • Strange Bedfellows

    The public’s inclination to tithe is unpredictable, but demand for beer is pretty much constant. That truth explains the genesis of a new homeless shelter funded in part by beer sales. It’s the result of an interesting coalition: Love Power Church, St. Stephen’s Catholic Church, and Finnegan’s Irish Ale.

    Love Power Church had a space, St. Stephen’s had start-up money, and Jaquie Berglund had experience marketing beer for Kieran’s Irish Pub. “I’m just trying to sell beer and I’m just trying to raise money for the poor. I’m trying to make a difference in a very creative way,” said Berglund over pints at The Local recently. “You can’t keep going back to the same pockets for the same money.” To that end, Berglund founded the Spud Society, a charitable foundation devoted to raising funds by marketing potato-related products.

    Pairing consumerism with charity is not new. Paul Newman’s self-proclaimed “Shameless Exploitation in Pursuit of the Common Good” has been going on for 20 years. His salad dressings and spaghetti sauces have generated $125 million for various causes. It’s been tried with beer before, too. Professional contrarian Dean Crist spent three years campaigning against Native American fishing rights in Wisconsin via sales of “Treaty Beer.” Defunct by 1990, the brew did find its clientele, but Crist never managed to keep contract brewers committed to a product that got the public pissed in the wrong way.

    Berglund has run into no such trouble with Finnegan’s Irish Amber, the first product commissioned by the Spud Society to generate income for the Love Power Shelter. You can find it at MGM and many other liquor stores, and the kegs are in rotation at 30 local watering holes, including The Local. Presently, Finnegan’s is brewed under contract with Schell and James Page, but the Spud Society plans to consolidate production with a new contract at Summit. “The product is really taking off,” said Berglund, thanks in part to a pro-bono ad campaign crafted by a pair of anonymous mavericks from a trendy downtown ad shop. Finnegan’s, they say, is “mentioned in four out of five Irish confessionals,” a claim not yet verified by St. Patrick’s.

    If you’re going to argue the merits of charitable brewing, it’s best to do it over a pint. Samples conducted liberally over the last few weeks have found Finnegan’s worthy of its goal, though Berglund declined to reveal exactly what role potatoes play in the recipe. The draft version presents a creamy, malty body akin to the honorable Irish stouts, but much lighter. The bottled version is less complex, and more crisp with a slight hoppy bitterness. In the Gastronomer’s home, it has so far been matched nicely with chorizo quesadillas and Big Mike’s Italian subs, making Finnegan’s the least painful tithe of fiscal 2002.